“The poor old man will not then regret having listened to the first impulse of his heart, which urged him to come to you,” said Robin, with a touching expression.  “You will sometimes remember me in that world to which you are returning?”

“Be sure of it, sir; but allow me to ask one question:  You remain, you say, in this house?”

“What would you have me do?  There reigns here a calm repose, and one is not disturbed in one’s prayers,” said Rodin, in a very gentle tone.  “You see, I have suffered so much—­the conduct of that unhappy youth was so horrible—­he plunged into such shocking excesses—­that the wrath of heaven must be kindled against him.  Now I am very old, and it is only by passing the few days that are left me in fervent prayer that I can hope to disarm the just anger of the Lord.  Oh! prayer—­prayer!  It was the Abbe Gabriel who revealed to me all its power and sweetness—­and therewith the formidable duties it imposes.”

“Its duties are indeed great and sacred,” answered Hardy, with a pensive air.

“Do you remember the life of Rancey?” said Rodin, abruptly, as he darted a peculiar glance at Hardy.

“The founder of La Trappe?” said Hardy, surprised at Rodin’s question.  I remember hearing a very vague account, some time ago, of the motives of his conversion.”

“There is, mark you, no more striking an example of the power of prayer, and of the state of almost divine ecstasy, to which it may lead a religious soul.  In a few words, I will relate to you this instructive and tragic history.  Rancey—­but I beg your pardon; I fear I am trespassing on your time.”

“No, no,” answered Hardy, hastily; “You cannot think how interested I am in what you tell me.  My interview with the Abbe Gabriel was abruptly broken off, and in listening to you I fancy that I hear the further development of his views.  Go on, I conjure you.

“With all my heart.  I only wish that the instruction which, thanks to our angelic priest, I derived from the story of Rancey might be as profitable to you as it was to me.”

“This, then, also came from the Abbe Gabriel?”

“He related to me this kind of parable in support of his exhortations,” replied Rodin.  “Oh, sir! do I not owe to the consoling words of that young priest all that has strengthened and revived my poor old broken heart?”

“Then I shall listen to you with a double interest.”

“Rancey was a man of the world,” resumed Rodin, as he looked attentively at Hardy; “a gentleman—­young, ardent, handsome.  He loved a young lady of high rank.  I cannot tell what impediments stood in the way of their union.  But this love, though successful, was kept secret, and every evening Rancey visited his mistress by means of a private staircase.  It was, they say, one of those passionate loves which men feel but once in their lives.  The mystery, even the sacrifice made by the unfortunate girl, who forgot every duty, seemed to give new charms to this guilty passion.  In the silence and darkness of secrecy, these two lovers passed two years of voluptuous delirium, which amounted almost to ecstasy.”